Lots of Angst
by catfacefandoms
Summary: The title pretty much says it all. Sherlock has an eating disorder. He also self harms. He also is suicidal. And of course, John has to pick up the pieces. WARNING: MAY BE TRIGGERING. Rated T for some language and some slight graphic descriptions.
1. Chapter 1

_**Chapter 1 The first time**_

The first time Sherlock purged, it was during the "Study in Pink", as John called it. It had been

exhausting chasing after that taxi the day before, and he had not eaten anything for 3 days. His

body was starting to protest. John did not know his habits well yet, and, as a doctor, thought they

were quite unhealthy. When he told John he was hungry, he had meant that he wanted a small

snack, like some walnuts, or a few grapes. Not _fucking carbonara_! That had to be at least 600

calories... He had tried to take the smallest portion possible, but Doctor John Watson would not

have it. He had sat, picking at his food, taking the occasional bite, until John looked slightly

satisfied.

He still remembers panting into the toilet bowl, looking down at the substances he had just

expelled from his stomach.

He remembers how he could hardly keep it down long enough to run to the bathroom with the

thought of all the calories in the cream, the cheese, the bacon, the pasta.

He remembers swallowing, as he fell back onto the cold tiled floor.

He remembers sobbing, at the thought of how fucked up he was.

After a good 5 minutes, Sherlock had gotten up from the floor, scrubbed off his hands and face,

flushed the toilet, washed out his mouth, and turned off the running shower off, his normal

emotional mask back on. The shower was the best way to disguise the retching noises. He had

opened the door, and proceeded to sit in his chair.

"That was... Nice," remarked the detective.

"Well, it's the first time you have said you were hungry, though I don't blame you, I haven't seen

you eat in two days! I wonder how often that opportunity comes along." replied John.

John soon picked up on Sherlock's habits, how he doesn't eat when he's on a case, how he only

eats small snacks, (his favorite being walnuts) rather than substantial meals. Sherlock was glad

that while the doctor did look sternly at him from time to time, he did not (often) force him to eat, or ask questions.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2 Bacon and eggs**_

The next time Sherlock purged was just before the H.O.U.N.D case when, after he had fasted for

15 days, John, for the first time since the carbonara had made him eat something bigger than a

snack. John had put his foot down. Scrambled eggs, tomatoes, toast and bacon, were put in front

of him. John wouldn't have any excuses. He was watching Sherlock's plate the entire time, as he

was beginning to get suspicious. He was hardly touching his own plate, but his eyes were glued to

Sherlock's. He noticed the way that Sherlock cut his food into small pieces, chewed slowly, trying

to delay.

In fact, Sherlock certainly was trying to delay, trying to finish after John, so he would be able to slip

some food into his serviette.

Unfortunately, he had no such luck. John's staring clearly explained that he had to eat everything.

And all that time, Sherlock was calculating.

2 pieces of bacon: 230 calories

1 fried tomato: 244 calories

2 scrambled eggs with butter: 194 calories

1 piece of toasted white bread: 90 calories

Total: 758 calories

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Bad bad bad.

Fucking hell.

PURGE.

The last bite seemed to grow in Sherlock's mouth, until he gagged. He managed to force it down

with a glass of water, before saying, "Thank you John, that was lovely," and retreating to the

bathroom.

He locked the door, turned the shower on, opened the toilet lid, lifted the seat, and hastily stuck two

fingers down his throat. It did not take long for his gag reflex to kick in, and he purged all the fatty

calories from his system. If was a great sense of relief.

That relief was somewhat clouded by the thought of what he had just done.

He scrubbed his hands and face, rinsed his mouth, flushed the toilet, and turned off the shower.

But the shower had not been disguising only his noises. There was a creak of a floorboard, just

outside the door.

Fuck.

Sherlock unlocked it, and let it swing open.

John was staring right back at him.

Sherlock was scared.

Very scared.

John was going to 'fix' him.

John was going to take his control.

He expected yelling. That's what others had done.

What he didn't expect, was for John to pull him into a hug and start to cry.

Sherlock found his emotional mask slipping, and he started to cry too.

After a while of awkwardly standing in the doorway, John pulled back.

"How long has this been going on?" He asked, still a tremor in his voice.

Sherlock didn't reply, just gave him a teary look.

"I'm a doctor Sherlock... You can tell me,"

Still silence.

"You're my best friend, the one I love... please..."

"It will only hurt you..." said Sherlock, tearily.

"Please..."

Sherlock paused.

"Ever since I was 15..." he half whimpered, tearing up again, and one tear fell onto his cheek.

It ran down his face and neck, and buried itself in his shirt collar.

John teared up again, but his eyes did not spill over. How the fuck can he not have noticed? He is

a doctor for Christ's sake. He was meant to be able to tell these things. I guess, it just seemed to

be a 'Sherlock thing'... And you don't really question 'Sherlock things'... He hugged his detective

again, trying to make him, and fuck, himself, feel better.

They both stood there again trying to comfort each other.

After Sherlock had calmed down a bit, John suggested that they sit down.

The detective said nothing, but slowly walked over to his chair.

Sherlock knew what was about to come...

Talking.

"Why didn't you tell me Sherlock?" John asked, sounding slightly defeated.

Pause.

"You will take it away... I don't want it to go away," Sherlock said, his voice still with a tremor.

"I won't take it away, not unless you let me. I can help though..." He trailed off.

There was silence for a few moments. Sherlock started to cry.

All this crying scared John beyond belief. Sherlock was an emotional robot. Someone died? Yay!

Case! Who cares about their family. Like that time he pretended to be all emotional about Ian, that

guy who disappeared with Jayness Cars, or 'relocated', just to gain information from the wife.

would've done that to question her no matter if her husband was dead or not.

But this? This was different.

Sherlock's mask was cracking. Does this mean he was cracking too?

"John?" Sherlock whispered, "I think I do need some help..."

Wow. That had been the last thing John had expected to hear.

But... Sherlock asking for help... It's seemed completely contrary to his usual character...

This was terrifying him.

"Ok Sherlock... Do you mean from me, or from someone like a therapist?"

"You of course, John... I'm not comfortable with anyone else... I normally do the reading about

people, people don't do the reading about me. Can you just... Look after me?" His voice broke

slightly on the last words.

"Yeah. Of course Sherlock, I'll support you..."

"And... I also have one other favor to ask... Can you not... _Make_ me eat things?

"Of course... As long as you eat a little bit, as opposed to not eating anything."

"A few walnuts?"

John smiled slightly. The detectives favorite snack... "Maybe a piece of fruit too... A few grapes

are fine..."

"Ok." Sherlock's last word wrung with finality, but John still had unanswered questions.

He could ask them later.

Sherlock got up, and moved towards his bedroom.

"Oh and Sherlock," John called.

The detective stuck his head around the corner.

"Can you tell me please? Tell me if it's getting worse?"

"Of course John," the detective said with half a smile.

John could tell he was lying.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3 Christmas Drinkies**_

It was Christmas, and Sherlock, John and were having a hurried Christmas dinner

before the others arrived for drinks.

John had assured Sherlock that he did not have to eat much dinner, if any.

Sherlock was more concerned about 's reaction.

She would have prepared a delicious meal, and she might be offended if he did not eat.

So he soldiered on, eating potatoes, turkey, carrots, peas, beef, ham... He hated himself for it.

Every bite was sheer agony.

He did not see how these were cooked.

Were the potatoes cooked in butter, or oil?

What was in the turkey stuffing?

Oh god, what was in the gravy!?

By the time he had finished, (luckily desert was going to be with everyone, so it is easier to slip out

of a crowd) he could hardly swallow anything. He retreated back upstairs, claiming he 'had things

to get ready'. John followed him.

Sherlock, part of the usual drill, went into the bathroom, tried to shut the door, but found that John's

foot was holding it open. John gave him a concerned look.

"You're not ok, are you..." He said, quietly.

"No..."

"It's ok, Sherlock... I could tell downstairs how uncomfortable you were... Why did you eat so much

if you knew this would happen?"

"I didn't know... Mostly, I didn't want to offend ..."

"It's ok, Sherlock... If you really need to... you can."

He left Sherlock, wondering if he had made the right call.

He did not hear any of the usual sounds from the next room.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4 The scars**_

About a month of eating a few walnuts and some grapes everyday or more, depending on how

Sherlock was feeling, John got up from bed, wandered down the hall, into the kitchen... Wait...

Someone is missing. It was 8:00. Sherlock is always up by now. _Sherlock is always up by now_. In

fact, he is always up a good 2 hours before now. He is always in the lounge room, doing something

or another... Where is he?

On the kitchen bench, there is a bowl with the remnants of John's dinner last night... Spaghetti

Bolognese... John hadn't eaten it... And there, on the other bench! A whole packet of chips, gone!

The biscuits in the cupboard...

Was this a binge?

Fuck.

He needed to find Sherlock.

He went to the bathroom, the door was closed, but there was no shower running, and it wasn't

locked... Thank goodness.

"Sherlock?" He called, his fear subsiding slightly.

A sob, from the end of the hall.

Sherlock's bedroom.

John knocked on the door.

"Sherlock... Do you want to talk?"

"Go away." Came the quiet voice of Sherlock, he was sobbing and crying, by the sounds of it.

John turned the doorknob, tentatively.

"NO!" Yelled Sherlock, but it was too late. John had opened the door.

Sherlock.

Bloody.

Razor blades.

Shit.

John strode out of the room, with purpose, leaving Sherlock momentarily alone, and sobbing

behind him.

He went to the bathroom, grabbed the antiseptic, some towels, and some bandages.

He strode back into the bedroom with determination and started to clean Sherlock's wounds.

All were on his arms. There must have been at least 40. The shallowest ones were a good 3

millimeters deep.

Sherlock winced as the antiseptic cleaned his cuts.

He was unnerved to see that these cuts were in-between old scars, very old scars.

He gently took the offending razor blade out of Sherlock's hand.

He did not take it, though.

He put it back in the small wooden box that Sherlock had next to him, which was full of various

sharp instruments. He didn't want Sherlock to start cutting himself with rusty knives or dirty pieces

of glass if he ever did this again.

"Now why," said John, wrapping the cuts with bandages now, "would you do this?" Asked John,

harshly.

Silence.

"Sherlock, I am getting an answer, one way or another," threatened John, moving on to his right

arm.

A sob.

And another.

"Sherlock..." John said, his voice softening, no longer harsh.

Sob.

"I ate... I ate... too much..." Answered Sherlock, between sobs. "I... Lost control..."

He was shaking now, slight tremors going through his body.

John sat beside him on the floor next to the bed, crying too now, and gave him an awkward,

sideways hug.

Why would he do this to himself? Why does anybody do this to themselves?

His beautiful, genius detective?

Why him?

"Did you purge?" Asked John, reluctant to know the answer, still trying to calm down.

"No..." Sherlock sobbed, "you... you didn't want me too..."

John felt a bit better, slightly honored, then very very _very_ guilty.

"Just because I say you shouldn't purge doesn't mean you should take it out on you arms, for

Christ's sake Sherlock... If this is the alternative, I'd rather you purge one time as opposed to

bleeding to death..."

Sherlock sat there, sobbing, head in his knees.

John continued to hug him, waiting for him to calm down.

"Have you slept?" John asked, after a while.

"No..."

"Come on then. Some rest then, perhaps some tea if you're up to it... Are you?

"That would be good. No sugar though?"

"Sure."

"Thank you, John..." He said, with sniffling.

"You're welcome, Sherlock."

John returned, a short while later, with a cup of white tea, no sugar. Sherlock had changed into his

silk pajamas. The lumps of the bandages were slightly visible through the sleeves.

"Thanks, John," Sherlock mumbled, sounding slightly ashamed, as he took the cup from John.

He sat on his bed, looking like he was thinking very hard about something, taking occasional sips

of tea. John went to get a sponge for the floor, and started to clean up the mess of razor blades.

"Can I trust that you won't do this again today?"

"Aren't you going to take them off me?" The detective asked.

"So what, next time you are feeling shit you take a rusty nail and cut yourself with it? I won't let that

happen."

"Yes, you can trust me John. I have never heard that before, but it is true..."

He placed the cup on the bedside table, and crawled under the covers.

"Thank you, John..."

"Tell me next time. Wake me up,"

"Ok..." This time it was said with sincerity.

John walked out of the room, but just before he shut the door, a muffled call of "John?" emanated

from the lump on the bed.

"Yeah Sherlock?"

"Can I have another blanket?"

John got the warm blanket off his bed, and draped it over Sherlock.

"Thanks." Sherlock said.

"No problems." John replied, as he bent down and gave Sherlock a tentative peck on the cheek.

Sherlock didn't mind at all.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter 5 The time on your own**_

The time on his own were the worst times. Normally it was half an hour. This time it was years.

How could Sherlock eat if he had no one to tell him to?

What was stopping him from cutting himself?

That was the worst part of being away from John.

The times after he supposedly committed suicide were the worst.

No John.

No Lestrade.

No .

No Molly.

No anybody.

All on his own.

No one would miss him if he died, they already thought him dead.

Mycroft would know.

But who cares?

Then, he was saved.

_Thank you_, brother dearest.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter 6 Weight**_

What.

Sherlock.

Back.

Not dead.

John was so happy, though he was so sad.

Sherlock's not dead!

Look how thin he is.

But he's not dead!

Imagine his arms.

The first time they were alone together, John felt the need to bring it up.

"So." Said John.

"Yes. About... this." He said, gesturing to his body.

"How much do you weigh, Sherlock?"

Sherlock had made the mistake of taking off his big bulky coat.

"Umm..." He stalled.

"How. Much." Pressed John, sounding quite menacing.

"113 pounds..."

John stared at him, tears welling in his eyes, and pulled Sherlock in slowly for a hug.

"I was going to... Gain some before I next saw you... But... I wasn't expecting to be pulled out this

early..."

He was starting to cry too now...

"Did you eat anything?" Asked John, still sounding tearful.

"Not really... I had no one to keep me going. Food was scarce, anyways..."

"Scarce, but not non-existent..."

"No, I s'pose you're right," replied Sherlock, sniffling.

They stood there, savouring the silence and the hug.

Finally, John spoke.

"What about self harm, Sherlock?"

Silence.

"Sherlock?"

Silence.

The shorter man reached for his detective's sleeve.

Sherlock moved it away, slightly, but did not stop John from taking his arm in his hand.

John unbuttoned the sleeve, and rolled it up to Sherlock's elbow.

Holy crap.

More scars than be remembers.

More scabs.

More fresh cuts.

"Why Sherlock?"

"I left you... That makes me feel like shit John. Shit."

John stood in shocked silence.

Sherlock wanted to say how it's like John doesn't need him anymore, but he needs John.

He bites his tongue.

"Sherlock..." John says slowly.

He fell backward onto the couch.

How do you respond to that?

Sherlock sat as well.

"I was ok, Sherlock. I had people to help me pick up the pieces. You had no one."

Silence.

A minute went by.

Then 5.

Then another 5.

They were both staring aimlessly into the fire, wondering what to do next.

"John?" Sherlock said.

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"Can you stay here tonight?"

"Sure... Whatever you need."

Sherlock was soon curled up on John's bed, and John hopped in too.

They both lay there, their breathing reassuring each other they both still existed.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter 7 Text**_

_John... Help... Please?_

No SH afterwards.

That must be a sign.

A bad one.

He hastily picked up his keys, grabbed his coat, shouted to Mary hurriedly about how he was just

going out for a while, and half sprinted to his car.

He drove to 221B as fast as he could.

_John_

"Come ON" he yelled at the traffic lights, drumming his steering wheel.

He got there finally, ran up the stairs, and was greeted by an empty flat.

_Help_

"Sherlock!" He yelled, trying to frantically find his detective.

"Sherlock! He tried again.

Bedroom door, open.

Bathroom door, shut.

He banged on the door.

The water wasn't running.

Why should it be?

Sherlock lived alone, now.

_Please_

Sob.

Whimper.

"Sherlock, I'm going to kick the door down!"

Sob.

"I mean it!"

"Oh for Christ's sake!" Sherlock knew it was a bluff.

He grabbed Sherlock's coat from the hook on the door, rummaged around until he found his

lock picking set, and hastily picked the lock.

"Come on!" He shouted at the lock pick.

He heard a click, and the door swung open.

Sherlock was face down on the floor, sobbing, the lingering smell of sick everywhere in the tiny

room. Blood on the floor, next to the wooden box. And on the sink.

Fuck.

A syringe.

John hastily picked it up, seeing if it had been used. It was full of liquid still, thank god, but too

much liquid. Way too much. Overdose size.

"Oh God..." John whispered

Sherlock was still sobbing on the floor.

John got the antiseptic from the cupboard, a hand towel and more bandages.

Sherlock was still sobbing into the floor, but John treated his wounds carefully.

He wrapped each arm in bandages with care, slightly alarmed at how deep Sherlock had gone.

Any deeper and he would've needed stitches.

As soon as both arms were bandaged John started to feel himself going over the edge.

He did not cry, he just sat in shocked silence for a while.

"Sher..." John tried.

Sob.

"Sherlock..." He said, fully this time.

Another sob.

John hugged his detective.

He sort of had to lie on the floor to do it, but it seemed to comfort him.

"C-c'mon, Sherlock... Let's... Sit down..." His voice was starting to shake.

They lay there, on the bathroom floor, for a good 10 minutes, before Sherlock seemed to calm

down with John's presence.

He slowly lifted his head off the floor.

"John?" He whimpered.

"Th-thanks for coming,"

"Always, Sherlock," was the only response he could muster.

John soon decided it was time to take Sherlock to bed.

They were both so emotionally worn, that they both plonked down onto John's bed, fully dressed.

Talking could wait until morning, when they had both calmed down.

John texted Mary his situation, and received a response soon after, saying that yes, of course it

was fine to stay at 221B that night.

They fell asleep, Sherlock curled up in a minuscule ball, John with his arms around him.

John woke up in the morning, slightly confused about where he was.

Oh. Now it's coming back.

Sherlock was still curled in the tiny ball he had fallen asleep in.

Worrying. It was 10:00.

John watched Sherlock, his chest rising and falling.

Still rising and falling.

Thank god.

"Joh..." Mumbled Sherlock in his sleep.

"John..." He mumbled again.

He turned over slightly.

His eyes opened slowly, sleepily.

"John?" He said, questioningly, this time.

"I'm here Sherlock,"

Sherlock paused.

"Thank you, John," he said, a little less sleepily.

Silence.

"What happened, Sherlock?" Asked John, almost pleadingly.

"What do you mean?" Replied Sherlock.

"I mean how did you end up on the bathroom floor with a syringe with a lethal overdose of cocaine

in it?"

More silence.

For 5 minutes.

Then, the detective spoke in a rush.

"Nobody needs me. I faked my death. The world kept turning. Criminals still got captured. My

friends still had lives. Look at you and Mary, Molly and Tom," Sherlock exclaimed.

"And I'm a fucked up person. I'm a stones throw away from being a serial killer, I'm ugly, fat..."

He continued to say even more things that hurt beyond belief.

Didn't he realise that none of this was true?

"...And I actively show signs of at least 5 personality disorders..." He finished.

He looked teary, though his voice had not quivered the entire time.

"The world did keep turning. The world will keep turning even if every single person on this planet

dies. Sure, criminals still got captured, but not nearly with as much speed or precision. I did still

have a life, but that would have changed. You were the only thing keeping me committing suicide. I

knew that if I did, you'd have killed me from beyond the grave,"

He gave a slight chuckle.

Pause.

His face was more serious again.

"I was suicidal before you came along, Sherlock... Civilian life wasn't suiting me well. I was

severely depressed. You turned that all around. You are beautiful. Every single inch of you is

precious to me. And last time I checked, being 113 pounds does not make you fat. The five

personality disorders are what makes you, you. You can't be you if you didn't have all those funny

little Sherlock quirks,"

John wondered if what he said made a difference.

Silence.

"121," Sherlock corrected him.

"What?" Said John.

"121 pounds," repeated Sherlock.

"Sherlock..." Said John, softly.

"That's an achievement,"

"But I'm... I... I'm so..."

"Sherlock... that's your distorted body image," replied John, even more softly.

"But..."

"You're the detective... A man of 6 feet, how much does he have to weigh to be at an average

weight?"

Silence.

"154 pounds..." Sherlock said, reluctantly.

"That's right," said John.

"So don't you ever tell yourself you are fat,"

Silence.

"John?" Sherlock said.

"Yeah?"

"Don't kill yourself, John."

"I won't, as long as you're still here."


	8. Chapter 8

_**Chapter 8 Cook**_

It was 3 months after the suicide attempt, just after the wedding.

Sherlock was cooking.

Why was Sherlock cooking?

It smelled delicious.

But... why?

John walked into the kitchen, and peered over the detectives shoulder.

"Curry?" Asked John.

"Yeah..." Said Sherlock. "For our dinner. Mary said you could stay tonight, didn't she?"

"Yeah, course she did. She's going out tonight with Janine,"

Sherlock wasn't just making any curry.

He was making beef curry.

Maybe he wasn't going to have any.

He would have made chicken curry, if he was going to have any.

Less calories.

But he had said 'our' dinner...

Sherlock filled two bowls, first with rice, then with curry.

One was a tiny bit smaller, but John still watched as his detective dished out his serve.

Sherlock put both bowls on the table, and sat down.

"Aren't you going to have any?" Asked Sherlock.

Silence.

"Ye... Yeah of course, Sherlock..." He stammered, slightly.

He sat down.

It was delicious food, but John couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock's plate.

Sherlock looked slightly uncomfortable, and was taking very small bites. So, no change then. None

really.

"Can you... Stop... Staring?" Asked Sherlock, almost pleadingly.

John realized he had been watching Sherlock's plate the entire time, and his mouth was ever so

slightly open.

He shut his mouth, and looked at his own food, trying not to look at Sherlock's.

Fork scraping on bowl, quicker now, as opposed to snail pace.

So there was a difference.

John ate his own food in shocked silence.

When John was done, he looked up. So was Sherlock.

Silence.

"That was... Delicious," John said.

"Thank you," replied the detective.

They had both polished off their plates.

After a while, John spoke.

"Good job, Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock flushed.

"I really shouldn't have eaten that much... Sorry..." He trailed off.

Sorry.

Sorry.

What on earth did he have to be sorry for?!

"Sherlock... What do you have to be sorry for? You just made me the happiest man alive!" John

laughed.

"Really?" Asked Sherlock.

"Yeah... Good job mate!"

Sherlock flushed a deeper shade of red.

John heard Sherlock go into the bathroom some time later, but did not hear any of the usual

noises.

The shower wasn't running.

John woke up next morning, and went out to the lounge.

Sherlock was playing his violin.

He didn't have to pick him up off the floor, this time.

All was well.

Rest assured, there would be relapses, but... Recovery can be messy.

And John... John would be there to catch him when he falls.


End file.
